


After the Fact

by Zalanchenko



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Credence Barebone Needs a Hug, F/M, I am talking an absolutely glacial burn, M/M, Mary Lou Barebone is Her Own Warning, Newt is good with creatures, Recovery, Slow Burn, aftermath of abuse, but terrible with people, so does Percival Graves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-17 14:15:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11276970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zalanchenko/pseuds/Zalanchenko
Summary: Real lives, unlike stories, can't be wrapped with a happy "The End". They go on well after the adventures have ended. Gellert Grindelwald doesn't give up that easily, and Credence Barebone's story didn't end down in that subway. This is what happens after the dust settles on New York city, after someone asks the important question: where's the real Percival Graves?Or: A story of growth and recovery, where Percival Graves and Credence Barebone try to pick up the pieces that Grindelwald left them in, with varying success.





	1. Chapter 1

New York, December 17th, 1926.

The battle was won, but at a too much of a cost. Gellert Grindelwald was in custody and the entire city of New York -- Maj parts and No-Maj parts alike -- were in complete chaos. The devastation was immense, and the No-Maj’s who had witnessed the magical world were innumerable. Obliviators were erasing memories has fast they could shoot off spells, but gossip in New York spreads at a rate second only to the speed of light.

In the subway station where the worst of the damage occurred, a magizoologist, a Legilimens, a No-Maj, and about 30 members of MACUSA tried to come to terms that the most powerful Dark Wizard in over a century was kneeling with hands bound behind his back, smirking and unrepentant, on the shattered subway tiles. In the pandemonium that ensued and the questions that it raised -- _Where do we keep Grindelwald imprisoned?_ _How_ _do we keep him imprisoned? What magical government has jurisdiction over this? How do we Obliviate tens of thousands of No-Maj’s at once? Are we exposed for good? --_ it is quite understandable that no one was paying attention to the gaping hole in the roof of the subway station. As such, it’s no one’s fault that a tiny dark mass floating up to the city level went completely unnoticed.

_______________________

By the time that Credence had pulled himself together again, he had no idea where he was or how much time had gone by. He opened his eyes, gasping in painful breaths of frigid winter air, only to slam them shut again against the bright light. He hurt. God, did he hurt. There was no end to it. Every shuddering breath made his chest feel like it was cracked open, every twitch of his closed eyelids felt like icepicks shoved into his brain.

_Maybe this is Hell,_ he thought. _Maybe I’m finally getting what I deserve._

Hell was a lot colder than he thought it would be. For all of Ma’s talk of brimstone and hellfire, it was positively chilly.

Credence pulled himself up into a sitting position, trying to will his body to stop trembling. Trying to keep his body from bursting apart at the seams. Even now, he could see the darkness pulsing beneath his skin on his hands, poking around for a way to get out. He didn’t even know why he was trying to control himself anymore, what the use of trying to keep that power inside was. He wished those witches had killed him.

Everything that he had was gone, and it was his fault. He had destroyed the only home he had, he had killed his Ma, Modesty was terrified of him and Mr. Graves --

Mr. Graves had _lied._

He had told Credence that he was special, he had pretended to care for him and all he did was _use_ him. All of these months, Mr. Graves was the only good thing in his life, the only person who ever looked at Credence like he was _worth something._ Mr. Graves never wanted him, he only wanted the the demon inside him. Ma was right, Credence was a sinner, he was worthless, he was a monster --

Credence’s fragile control snapped and he let himself get washed away in the power and the anger and the hate, until he only had one driving force:

He was going to make Mr. Graves pay.

In the corner of an alley in lower Manhattan, a shadow stirred.

__________________

President Seraphina Picquery was having a bad day, and it was getting worse by the minute. Six different countries were requesting that Grindelwald be extradited to them, each citing that they had suffered the most from the wizard and thus deserved to sentence him. Picquery didn’t trust any of them not to lose him. Hell, she barely trusted her own people not to lose them, not that she would ever voice that thought out loud. It was just...Grindelwald.

MACUSA wasn’t prepared to detain the most powerful dark wizard in the world. And why should they be? Grindelwald, up until now, had been Europe’s problem to deal with. His American followers were small fish, mostly disgruntled purebloods whose families had lost power in the last few decades. It was the No-Maj’s that have been the focus of MACUSA’s efforts these last few years.

Right now, though, Picquery was less concerned with the havoc that Grindelwald wreaked in New York and more concerned with _how_ he did it. Percival Graves, head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had been replaced by Gellert Grindelwald. That much was known and accepted. The obvious follow-up question: Where was Director Graves now? Was he even still alive? All of the Aurors not detaining Grindelwald or minimising the damage from the Obscurus were scouring the city for a sign of him.

The question plaguing President Picquery was _when_ the switch took place.

Picquery closed the case file in her hands with a disgusted sigh and tossed it onto her desk. She leaned forward, pillowed her head in her arms, and tried to wrack her brain. _When did Graves go missing?_

She didn’t know. It could have been yesterday. It could have been weeks ago. She had no idea, had never even had the faintest suspicion that Graves had been replaced. He’d been more serious, more antisocial -- but that was just how Graves always was, it was how he always became when work got rough.

There was a knock on the office door. Picquery flinched, and then scowled at herself for doing so. She sat up and tried to wipe the exhaustion from her eyes. Making a half-hearted effort to bring order to her desk, she reopened the case file and tried to look more Presidential than she felt.

“Come in” she barked.

The door to her office creaked open a bit, and her secretary, Goldie Meyers, stuck her head in. “Uh, Madame President? I know you said not to bother ya, and I’m _real_ sorry about barging in, but it was just that, uh, there’s a memo and I thought you would wanna know right away, so I --”

“ _Please_ , Miss. Meyers, _get to the point.”_

Meyers jumped a bit and stepped into the office, twisting a ring on her hand. “Senior Auror Eckhart sent a memo up, just now. He said, G-Grindelwald has been secured and cleared for interrogation. Ma’am.”

Picquery stood up so quickly that her chair slid back into the wall behind her. She looked down at the case file in front of her, where a picture of Percival Graves scowled and blinked up at her.

_Status: Missing in Action, Feared Deceased_

She gripped her wand until her knuckles turned white and gathered up the file. “Cancel my appointments for the rest of the afternoon, Meyers. I’ve got some questions for Mr. Grindelwald.”

In the darkest parts of the city, a shadow searched.


	2. Chapter 2

In a holding cell warded up to the gills, deep in the depths of MACUSA, Gellert Grindelwald sat restrained with his hands tied behind his back. Despite the restriction, he seemed perfectly at ease, smiling genially at his guards as if he were remembering a mildly amusing joke. 

From behind a bespelled wall, President Picquery and Senior Auror Eckhart inspected him tensely. The fact that Grindelwald was wandless and the wall was impenetrable did nothing to calm their minds.  

“Has he said anything?” asked Picquery, not taking her eyes off of Grindelwald. 

Eckhart was silent, jaw clenched tight. After a long few seconds, he bit out “He asked how Claire was liking her first year at Ilvermorny, Madame President.” 

Picquery drew in a breath. “A threat, do you think?” 

A terse shake of his head. “No. A power play. He’s had Merlin knows how long to gather intel on each and every one of us, and he wants to make sure we know it.” 

“All the same, you should --” 

“Sarah’s already got her. I told her to take the kids to her parents for a bit.”  

All the while, they spoke while looking at the bound wizard in the next room. There was a heavy silence as Picquery idly wondered how to say “Sorry a dark lord might be out for your family” without being insensitive. As it stood, Eckhart spared her from having to make that condolence. 

“Are you sure you should be the one to question him about Director Graves?” he asked with a sidelong glance towards her. Behind them, the other Aurors shifted uncomfortably.  

Picquery looked towards him sharply. “And  _ what _ , exactly, is that supposed to mean?” she inquired coolly. “I was an Auror long before I became President. Bureaucracy hasn’t made me forget how to conduct an interrogation.”

“That’s not what I was implying, ma’am. I’m concerned because this isn’t a routine investigation of a smuggler or Statute of Secrecy violator, it’s --”

“ _ I’m aware of who this is _ , Eckhart,” Picquery snapped. “As well as what the stakes of this interrogation are.”

Eckhart made an involuntary impatient noise, causing the President’s eyes to narrow dangerously. The two Aurors behind them exchanged a panicked glance and started inching towards the door. When Picquery glared over at them, they froze in place guiltily. 

“Madame President, with all due respect,” said Eckhart, not sounding very respectful, “This isn’t like the other investigations you headed as an Auror. I should know, I’ve been in the force longer than you have. After all, I was a Senior Auror when you were still in training.” 

“Oh no,” whispered one of the Junior Aurors. They resumed inching for the door, a bit faster this time.  

“This is bordering dangerously on insubordination, Senior Auror Eckhart. Now, if you would --” 

“You have a vested interest in the results of this interrogation, Ma’am. He’s going to use that against you.” 

Picquery attempted to reign in her mounting frustration. She directed her stony glare back to Grindelwald, who hadn’t seem to have moved an inch since she walked in the observation room. Though she wasn’t turned towards him, Eckhart could see the blank, professional look on her face from the reflection of the bespelled glass wall. 

“Of course I have a vested interest, Auror Eckhart.” She retorted. “The entire country has a vested interest in this. Gellert Grindelwald has been impersonating the Director of Magical Security for an unknown length of time. He nearly exposed the entire wizarding world.”

“He impersonated your  _ friend _ ,” Auror Eckhart corrected softly. 

She tensed and for a split second the reflection of Seraphina Picquery looked heartbroken. By the time Piquery turned towards Eckhart, her face was impassive once again. 

“I’m capable of separating my personal and professional lives. My personal connection to Director Graves will have no bearing in my line of questioning.” 

After a pause, Auror Eckhart replied “I have full faith that you can, Madame President. Just...be prepared for Grindelwald to use it against you.” 

“Like he used  _ Claire  _ against you?” 

Eckhart flinched minutely and looked away from her. “Exactly like that, Madame President.” 

The observation room was quiet aside from the low hum of the wards and the almost imperceptible crackle of agitated magic. The Junior Aurors were trying not to breathe for fear of bringing the President’s wrath down upon them. The silence seemed to hang heavy and oppressive in the room, a palpable weight upon the shoulders of everyone there. On the other side of the window, Grindelwald continued to smile pleasantly at his guards. 

Picquery sighed, seeming to let the outrage drain from her. The air within the room seemed to lighten. One of the Aurors shot a relieved glance of the ceiling, stemming the urge to fervently whisper a grateful prayer. 

When Picquery spoke, it was with an air of finality and authority. “I understand your concerns, Auror Eckhart, but they aren’t enough to change my mind.” She strode past Eckhart to the door leading to the interrogation room, heels sharply clacking against the cold stone floor. 

From the other side of the glass, eyes tracked her movement. 

\----------------------------------

The dark mass that used to be Credence Barebone swept across the city silently, searching, snooping. It swirled to the old church that bore no sign what had happened there, other than the conspicuous absence of Second Salemers. There was nothing aside from the old scent of blood and misery, sunk so deep into the bones of the church that not even witchcraft could dispel it. The mass rippled agitatedly and rushed out, shattering glass windows anew. 

In secluded alleyways around the city, it crept along gutters and cracks in the street for the one that it was hunting. In each place, the smell of magic was old and stale, fading into the bricks of buildings and blowing away with the wind. Graves was gone. The mass roiled like ocean waves crashing into rocks, trembling with the force of its own power and the anguish of the young man who made it. With a great gust, it spiraled into the cloudy night sky, the city shrinking beneath it as it ascended into the inky clouds. There, above the clouds, it halted, hovering.  

With a great concussive force, the mass exploded outwards, mingling with the clouds and stretching over the city lights until all of New York lay beneath it. Then it went still as it sifted through the immense magic of the city for the one that it wanted. The mass could almost taste it. It was, it was...

_ It wasn’t there _ . It was gone. The mass pulsed and quaked with fury, howling at the loss of it’s prey, cheated at the absence of the one who had betrayed it. It barreled back down to the ground at random to rend apart everything,  _ anything,  _ in the place of who it was seeking when -- there! The mass froze mid-free fall, wavering a hundred feet from street level. 

There. Faint and almost imperceptible. Graves. 

Deep inside the nebulous darkness, Credence smiled. 

\------------------------------------------------

_ Grindelwald would be much less unsettling _ , Picquery mused,  _ if it weren’t for those mismatched eyes.  _

The eyes in question were fixed unwaveringly on her as she entered the interrogation room. The placid on his face grew into something a bit toothier. Picquery had the impression that it was more of a wolf-like baring of teeth than an expression of goodwill. He bent forward slightly as he settled himself more comfortably in his restraints, arms shackled behind him and lets bound together.

She walked to the chair opposite to him. Besides the table in between them, it was the only other piece of furniture in the room. The room itself was perfectly square, with seamless glossy stone on all surfaces of the room, enchanted to be impervious to any attack, magical or mundane. In each corner stood a Senior Auror, wands drawn and trained unerringly at the bound wizard.  

Sitting down at the table, she folded her hands in front of her. “Good evening Mr. Grindelwald.” Her face and voice were serene and inscrutable. 

“Is it evening?” asked Grindelwald pleasantly. “Time does fly.”  Then he said no more, choosing continue in his observance of her. Her eyes were steady as she met his gaze, Occlumency shield unshakable. His head tilted inquisitively, lips tilting up. 

“No need for all of those mental walls, Madame President.” The wolf-smile returned as he leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, as if he were telling a secret, “I don’t need Legilimency to see into  _ your _ mind, Seraphina.”  

He settled back into his chair, still smiling. “After all, I’ve had so much time to get to know you. I feel as if we’ve been friends always.” 

Picquery's face betrayed nothing as she retorted calmly, “You seem to have me at a bit of a disadvantage, then. Why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself?” 

“By all means. I have been awfully rude, haven’t I?” He went on, agreeably “What would you like to know?”

_ This is dangerous,  _ Picquery thought to herself.  _ I didn’t account for him being willing to speak to me so easily.  _

“Let start with simple things,” she suggested. 

“Sounds wonderful.” 

“Why did you want to set an Obscurus lose in New York?” 

His brow crinkled. “I’d’ve thought that would be obvious to a witch of your caliber, President Picquery.”

“Humor me.” she drawled. “Let’s start with the obvious and work our way up.”

Grindelwald snorted, then amiably agreed. The more he complied with her, the more tense she became. 

“Let’s see...I’ll spare you the recruitment spiel, shall I? I know a lost cause when I see one.”

“I’d appreciate that, Mr. Grindelwald.” 

“Call me Gellert, please.” When the request got no reaction from Picquery, he moved on. “The Obscurus was a pet project of mine. Unlikely to pay off, yes, but interesting nonetheless.” He sighed wistfully, “It could have been incredible, if only I had realized that it was the boy sooner. Even so, he had lived long past the expectancy of the average Obscurial. Probably wouldn’t have lasted another few months, the state he was in -- not nearly long enough for what I wanted it for. A fruitless venture in the end.” 

“What were your plans with the Obscurus?” 

“Nothing horribly sophisticated. I was just going to let it do what it does best. There’s no way of containing that power, you just have to choose where to let it off for the optimum result.” 

“The optimal result being…?”

“An end to our cowardly hiding. A declaration to the world that wizardkind is going to claim their rightful place in the light, outside of the shadows that we’ve sulking in for far too long.” Grindelwald smiled at her. “But you know all of this, surely.” 

“Let’s move on then, Mr. Grindelwald. How did you manage to get past the wards in Director Grave’s office and residence? They’re keyed to his magical signature.” 

Grindelwald yawned, bored. “An obscure yet powerful replication spell. Blood magic, of a sort, fallen out of favor long ago. The spell has ended now, as you can no doubt tell. I haven’t had a chance to renew it, you see” Picquery’s skin crawled at the thought of Grindelwald using blood magic on Graves. The investigators had figured it would be something like that, but the confirmation was still terrible. 

Moving on from that line of inquiry, Picquery kept her posture and tone controlled. Next question. “When did you take the place of Director Graves?” Her hand was poised above the notepad, her tone casual and almost clinical. 

Grindelwald saw right through it. Like a shark honing in on the scent of blood, he turned his full attention to her, a slow delighted smile starting turning up the corners of his mouth. “You mean you  _ don’t know _ ?” 

She started firmly, “I assure you, Mr. Grindelwald, we --”

“You don’t!” he chortled. “Oh, you have no idea, do you, President Picquery? That must be terrible for you. It must be eating you up inside.” He threw his head back and laughed, elated. 

The guards in the corners moved forward minutely, ready to spit off curses at a moment’s notice from Picquery. She held up her left hand, stopping them. Her right was clenched around her wand underneath the table, aimed straight for the dark wizard. 

“Answer the question,” she said, trying to calculate how to turn the interrogation back in her favor.

“Alright, alright. No harm in letting you in on it.” Grindelwald smirked. “Let’s see, when was it? Oh, I can’t remember the exact date.”

Picquery gritted out, “An approximate date will suit me just fine.” 

“About a week before Auror Goldstein attacked that horrid Muggle.” 

The blood drained from Picquery’s face. “You’re lying,” she breathed. 

“Why would I?” Grindelwald asked, faking bemusement. “There’s no reason to, not when the truth suits my purposes just fine.”  

“Over six months ago. You replaced Director Graves six months ago.” Picquery had the overwhelming urge to find the nearest ladies room and throw up her lunch. She couldn’t leave yet, not while there was still the slightest chance that Grindelwald would answer more of her questions. She took a deep breath and met Grindelwald’s eyes again, face steely

Grindelwald had abandoned all pretenses of goodwill as he went in for the kill.  

“Horrible, isn’t it? You never even noticed. Not even the slightest suspicion that he was an impostor. I wonder,” he mused cruelly, “what that says about you. Your closest friend gets swapped out for a dark wizard overnight and you never even batted an eye. Do you even know him at all, do you think? Or have you just kept him around for what he can do for your career? Tell me the truth,” He leaned forward and purred, “I was a better Percival Graves than the real one, wasn’t I?” 

“Let’s move on to the next question.” Her voice could have frozen hellfire. “What did you do to Director Graves?”

“He’s alive, if that’s what you’re getting at. At the moment.” 

Picquery felt her heart skip a beat. “Where?” 

“I’m feeling a bit tired from all of these questions, Madame President. I think I’ve cooperated more than enough for now, don’t you?” 

Picquery stood, placing her palms on the table. She leaned in and hissed,  “If you don’t tell me where he is, I’ll have you sent across the Atlantic in pieces.” 

Grindelwald was unruffled by the threat. “That’s not very nice. Besides, it’s no more than you deserve.” For the first time, the smile dropped from his face. The room suddenly seemed ten degrees cooler. 

He sneered at her derisively. “I spent a considerable amount of time and effort on the Obscurus that you ordered destroyed. Obviously, I can’t do much from my current location.” He gestured down at his bound body with a tilt of his chin. “What I can do is get immense satisfaction from the fact that although you now know your dear friend Graves is still alive, you’ll never find him in time. I’ve already been here for over a day. I wonder how much longer he can hold on in his current state?” 

He leaned back in his chair. “Always a pleasure, Seraphina. Do come again soon.” 

Picquery stood up straight and signaled to her guards. In unison, four Stunning spells hit Grindelwald. She took immense satisfaction at the crack his head made when it hit the table. Then she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. 

Snapping her eyes open, she looked into the wall adjoining the observation room and barked, “I want a Legilimens in here, yesterday. Double the team assignments to the search and rescue. We’re on a limited time frame.” 

Then she stalked out of the interrogation room, robes billowing behind her as she made her way to her office. 

“Cancel my appointments for the rest of the night, Meyers.” she ordered to her secretary. 

Not waiting for an affirmative response, President Picquery firmly shut herself in her office and locked the doors. She turned around and slumped against the wall, kicking her shoes off one at a time. She closed her eyes and held out her hand, closing it tightly around the decanter that flew into it. 

_ If you die, Graves, I’ll kill you myself,  _ she thought fiercely as she poured herself a generous glass. 

It had been a very bad day. 

\---------------------------------------------

There was an old condemned textile factory in central Harlem, a half burnt out shell from a fire decades ago. As such, no one was around to see the black cloud that descended in the middle of the courtyard The cloud undulated and shrunk until in it’s place stood a hunched, gaunt young man, shaking in the December air. Black smoke seemed to seep out of his clothes and his skin, curling around him in translucent tendrils. 

The young man cocked his head, as if he were listening for something. The air was silent and still, as if the entire city was waiting for something. The man’s head shot up, focusing on a low section of the building that had yet to start crumbling. 

A dark blur, too fast to see, and the wall was gone, collapsed in a violent crash that had brick crushed into rubble and powder. The young man walked forward into the factory, paying no mind to the debris now strewn everywhere. At the end of the hall stood a single door with an odd symbol carved into it. The man reached up to his neck and yanked off a necklace bearing the symbol on it, scowling at it. Before he could crash into that door as well, both the pendant and the door flashed a blinding white. As the glow faded, the latch on the door clicked open. 

Credence paused, wondering if this was another trap by Mr. Graves. He stood still, wracked with indecision until the urge for answers, for revenge, outweighed the risks. He pushed the door open gently and stood in the doorway, half shifted into shadow. 

There was nothing. Just a filthy room with a empty cot. The darkness seeped back into Credence as he entered the room, angry and confused. Then there was a horrible pain in the back of his head as Credence was propelled onto the floor of the room, too startled by the sudden blow to disappear into the darkness. He rolled around onto his back, holding his head and scrambling away from whatever hit him. 

He looked up with eyes that were already turning white, ready to tear apart whatever attacked him, to see -- Mr. Graves, who looked much dirtier and scruffier and bloodier than he had the day before. Mr. Graves, who, besides looking like he had been put through a meat grinder, was looking at Credence like he was terribly confused. The confusion, more than the rough state of him, made Credence hesitate to give Mr. Graves his comeuppance. 

As he looked, the confusion on Graves’ face turned to anger. “That’s a new face. Did you finally get sick of wearing mine?” he snarled, taking a step towards Credence, who backed up instinctively.

Upon hitting the back wall, Credence panicked and disappeared into the darkness, hovering up near the ceiling in the corner of the room, the mass twitching agitatedly. 

Graves’ mouth hung open as he regarded the mass in the corner. He started to speak, inhaling sharply, and then broke into a wet-sounding coughing fit as he leaned against the wall. When he caught his breath, he peered disbelievingly at the twitching ball of darkness and croaked out “That’s different.” He swayed a bit in place, holding onto the railing of the cot. 

Gradually, the mass sunk down to the floor and Credence emerged from it, looking equal parts confused and furious. He clenched his jaw and took a step forward, glaring at Graves.  

“You lied to me,” he seethed accusingly, lifting up his hand. Darkness seemed to spill from it, reaching out towards Graves. 

“I’m sorry,” Graves slurred, sliding down the wall a bit more. “Have we met?” With that, he collapsed in a heap on the floor. 

Credence froze, looking incredulously down at the figure on the floor. He was beginning to suspect that he was missing something.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wherein credence is confused and picquery is frustrated

December 20th, 5AM.

Credence Barebones was feeling more solid that he had since he found the fake wand under Modesty’s bed. The burning anger that had been consuming him, muddying his thoughts and clouding his mind, had died down to a simmer as it was replaced by bemusement. As darkness seeped back into him (watching, waiting, ready), he seemed to be able to think clearer than before he found the fake wand under Modesty’s bed. Unfortunately, that didn’t mean his current situation made any more sense. Credence inched forward cautiously towards the figure. Other that the shallow rise and fall of his chest, the man didn’t move. Up close, he looked even worse. Gaunt and sallow, circles under his eyes that were as dark as bruises. Hair and beard longer than Credence had ever seen him with -- much too long to have grown in less than two nights.

He nudged the man with his foot, and then retreated back to the wall quickly. The man groaned and turned his head, but didn’t wake. There was a long vertical scar on the side of his face, a jagged red line from above his hairline down to a few inches above his jaw. It looked painful, Credence thought. More than that, it looked _old._

Credence sunk down, settling on the floor in the corner of the room. He pulled his knees to his chest narrowed his eyes unblinkingly at the prone man. Darkness swirled gently around his arms and hands like ribbons. He had nowhere to go, nothing to do. He could wait.

\-------------------------------

If she had to wait another minute for her people to get their shit together, President Picquery was going to start slinging curses. She hadn’t slept more than a couple hours at a time since Grindelwald was taken in, and even cosmetic spells couldn't hide the haggard look in her eyes. As impatient as she was, she couldn’t fault her Aurors too much. They were taking the news of Grave’s impersonation nearly as hard as she was. None of them were dealing well with the revelation that they hadn’t noticed their boss getting replaced by a dark wizard. _The mind-healers at St. Luke’s are going to make a killing off of us when this is all over,_ she thought.

In front of Picquery stood a huge map of New York. Every spot that had been searched was marked with a glowing red dot. There were dozens of dots, but even so the map was painfully sparse.  Next to her, Senior Aurors Gillespie and Wildes were almost coming to blows as they argued over where to send the search teams next. They had practically torn Grave’s apartment apart. They had searched the residences and places of business of every known Grindelwald sympathizer in upstate New York and had nothing to show for it. As the two Aurors argued the merits of extending the search out-of-state vs a more in depth search of the city, Picquery felt her hopes sink lower and lower. _This is an impossible task,_ she realized. _It’s going to take weeks to search the city. He’ll be long dead before we get a lead._

“Madame President?” a cautious voice called.

Picquery turned wearily to see the Goldstein sisters. Behind them stood Newt Scamander, shuffling his feet awkwardly and trying to avoid eye contact with anyone in the room. In his arms was the that god-awful case full of creatures.

“Mr. Scamander, I thought I was very clear about my thoughts on that case of yours. Why are you still in my city?”

Scamander took a half step forward, looking over at her briefly before continuing to stare at the map besides her. He opened his mouth as if to speak and then closed it again.

“That would be my fault, ma’am.” Tina Goldstein offered, looking apologetic.

“How shocking.” Picquery said flatly, crossing her arms in front of her. Scamander looked as if he wanted to retreat into his suitcase. His hand started for one of the clasps, pausing when Picquery gave him a severe look.

“I don’t have time for this, or for whatever creature you’ve set on the city this time.” She gestured towards the map with a tilt of her head. “This assignment happens to be time sensitive.”

With that she turned her attention back to the squabbling Aurors. Gillespie was yanking Wildes down to eye-level by his tie as she hissed out her disdain for both him and his search plan. Wildes looked outraged and terrified in equal parts as he tried to pry himself away. Picquery’s hand rose to her temple, trying to massage out her impending migraine.

A throat cleared behind her. Picquery raised her eyes to the ceiling, praying for patience. If things continued as is, she was debating the merits of becoming the next Dark Lord. She turned back around to see the interloping trio still there.

“For the love of Merlin, Tina, _what?”_ Picquery barked.

The other Goldstein, Queenie, spoke instead. “Newt here thinks he can help you search for Mr. Graves, Madame President.” Scamander was standing behind Queenie, peering cautiously from behind her curls.

“Queenie!” Tina moaned. “We were gonna ease her into the idea!”

“What, Teen? If you could hear what she’s thinkin’ you’d get to the point, too!” She turned to Picquery and asked pleasantly “Would you still be called a Dark Lord, ma’am, or would it be a Dark Lady?”

Picquery’s eyes widened as she slammed her mental shields back down.

“Yeah, I am.” confirmed Queenie cheerfully. “No. Natural, not taught.”

Picquery’s brows drew together as she regarded the Legilimens.

“Well, I never really _wanted_ to be in law enforcement.” Queenie explained. “I prefer being around happier minds, you know?”

Tina hissed, “Queenie, stop reading the President’s mind. It ain’t polite.”

Queenie smiled and shrugged, unrepentant. Behind her, Newt continued to look uncomfortable. Picquery marveled that he was the one to take down Grindelwald. He looked about as fierce as a kitten at the moment.

“I know,” Queenie gushed. “Ain’t he just the cutest?”

Newt blinked. He leaned over to Tina as he darted glances between Picquery and Queenie. “Do you know what’s happening?” he whispered.

Tina rolled her eyes, “She’s talking about you, numbnuts.” Both her’s and Newt’s faced pinked.

“I know.” Queenie commiserated. “They _do_ need to get their act together.

“ _Queenie!”_ Tina moaned again. Picquery sighed.

“As fun as this is, how exactly does Mr. Scamander think he can aid in our search?” Picquery gave a suspicious look at the suitcase.

“Oh, well, _I_ can’t help. I mean, I could, but I know you already have…” Scamander made a vague hand gesture towards Aurors Gillespie and Wildes, “people on it.

Picquery narrowed her eyes. “If you can’t help, then I suggest you --”

“Nelson!” Scamander blurted. Picquery paused.

“Nelson,” She echoed flatly. With a wave of her hand, she beckoned a steaming cup of coffee to float towards her. “Who, pray tell, is Nelson?”

“Oh!” Scamander placed his case on the ground, kneeling down besides it to undo to clasps. “He’s just in here, I’ll show you--”

“Newt, don’t you _dare_ bring it out into a room full of Aurors,” Tina hissed. Picquery looked alarmed. She drew her wand cautiously. Behind her, Gillespie and Wildes had stopped arguing in favor of looking suspiciously at Scamander.

“He’s very friendly,” Newt assured, opening the case and then reaching into it up to his shoulder. Nearly laying down on the floor, he grasped around wildly in the case, muttering “Where’d you go, you little bugger.” Then he took his arm out of the case, frowned, and then stuck his head inside. “Ah ha! Come here, you naughty thing….gotcha! Ha!”

Scamander scrambled up, grinning triumphantly, hair standing every which way. In his outstretched hands was a squirming, brown...thing. “This is Nelson!” Scamander proclaimed. Nelson wriggled desperately in a bid for freedom.

“It’s a niffler,” Tina explained.

Picquery frowned at it. “Does this happen to be the same niffler who caused havoc at the no-maj bank last week?” Scamander’s face fell, and he brought the niffler back towards his chest protectively.

“Ah, well. He was having an off day. He’s usually a lot better behaved,” he assured, which elicited a snort from both Tina and Queenie. The niffler had stopped squirming and was instead eyeing Picquery’s necklace appraisingly.

“I’m not seeing how a treasure-hunting creature will be any use to use, Mr. Scamander. It’s unlikely that Director Graves has any valuables in his possession at the moment.”

“Nelson has very acute sense of smell,” Scamander explained. His hand stroked the nifflers head gently as he spoke. “If you can give me something that Mr. Graves had on his person fairly often, something that Grindelwald didn’t handle too much, he can track him within a certain distance.”

“What sort of distance?”  Picquery demanded.

“It hasn’t been well tested, really, but I’d estimate that if Mr. Graves were within a three mile radius, Nelson could smell him within a half an hour or so.”

Auror Gillespie took out a pen and started to do calculations on the map, scribbling furiously. “New York City is about 300 squares miles. If what that the British guy says is true, then we could search the entire city in about…” Gillespie stopped writing and looked wide-eyed at Picquery. “Five hours, Madame President. We could search the entire city in five hours if this guy is for real.”

“Just a tad longer than than, I should think.” Scamander said, looking down at the niffler. “He can’t do it without a break or two.”  

Picquery drew in a quick breath. She nodded sharply to the two Senior Aurors. “Wildes, take Scamander and his...Nelson. Give a briefing to the teams, I want you to start in Lower Manhattan and work your way up. Progress reports delivered to me every half hour.”

“Yes, Madame President.” Wildes grabbed Scamander’s arm and started dragging him towards the teams of Aurors on the other side of the Major Investigations Department. Queenie and Tina followed, the latter picking up the suitcase full of creatures still laying on the floor.

Picquery grabbed a small bit of paper and a pen, writing a quick note on it. “Gillespie, go to Director Graves’ apartment and bring this back. The niffler should be able to track this.”

Gillespie took the note and apparated on the spot.

As Picquery watched Wildes brief the rest of the Aurors, hope began to stir against her will.

_If you die before we find you, I’ll never forgive you. Hold in there, Percival._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next one will be Credence and Graves- centric, I promise!


	4. Chapter 4

December 20th, 6:17 AM

The man on the floor groaned. 

He had been doing that on and off for the past hour, but this time he opened his eyes, squinting the in darkness of the room. Credence watched from the corner as the man slowly and with great effort pulled himself into a sitting position. He had one arm curled against his ribs. The other arm was pushing against the floor, and clenching and unclenching reflexively. He leaned his head back against the wall. Credence could see the man swallow. 

After another minute of no more movement from the man, Credence realized with a start that the man didn’t realize that he was no longer alone. He had a brief crisis where he wasn’t sure what he should do. Should he move? Should he say something? Credence shifted minutely, trying to decide how to proceed. In doing so, his hand brushed against a rock that scraped along the ground. He withdrew immediately, but the damage was done. 

Credence looked up from the rock and locked eyes with the man. There were a few beats of silence as they stared at each other, wide eyed. 

“Are...are you real?” asked the man-who-might-be-Mr.Graves. 

Credence nodded jerkily, pressing back against the corner like he was trying to sink through the wall. 

“Alright,” the man said. He stared some more. Credence looked at the cot instead, avoiding the man’s eyes. “You’re...smoking?” 

Credence looked at his arms, where there was indeed dark tendrils of smoke rising from them. He nodded again. 

“You  _ sure  _ you’re real, kid?” 

“Who are you?” Credence asked instead. The man flinched at the sound of his voice. 

“Percival Graves.” he croaked. “Who’re you?”

Credence ignored the question. “I met a man called Percival Graves. You’re not --”

“Yeah, I know who you’re talking about. Face-stealing son of a bitch. What’s the date today?” 

“December 20th, I think? And I don’t understand.” Smoke was still rising from his arms. Graves followed the trail of it up with his eyes until it disappeared into the air. Then he looked back at Credence. He blinked, narrowed his eyes, and tilted his head. 

“The 20th, really? Jesus.” He sighed and shook his head. “You’re much better than the other hallucinations, at least. Prettier.” 

Credence’s mouth fell open a bit, and then he snapped it shut. “I’m not -- I’m not a  _ hallucination.” _

“That’s what a hallucination would say,” the man informed him sagely. “If you’re not a hallucination, prove it.”

“I already _ told _ you, I’m  _ real _ .” The smoke rose thicker and more rapidly as Credence started to lose his patience.  

“Then get me out of here,” Graves challenged triumphantly. 

Credence rose a hand and the door blew off of the hinges with an ear-splitting clatter. Graves blinked owlishly at the empty doorway. “Oh. Guess you are real, then.” He frowned. “Or, I could have hallucinated that too,” he mused. 

Graves flinched when Credence moved to get up. The Obscurial rose to his feet, hunching his shoulders and looking at a stain on the wall about three feet from Graves’ head. “This isn’t what I came here for. I didn’t expect -- you’re not who I expected you to be. I’m not sure what’s happening, either, so I think -- I’m just going to leave, alright?” It was the most Credence could ever remember saying. 

Graves attempted to get up but fell back to the floor, pressing a hand against his right side and grimacing. “Wait, kid, who are --” 

“I-I’m sorry, I have to go.” With that, Credence let the darkness overtake him as he did what he did best -- he fled. 

In an empty room in a half collapsed factory, a man sat alone, staring at in empty corner. Then he pulled himself up, vision blurring from the effort and from the pain in his side. Clenching, his jaw, he started making his way to freedom. 

He got about halfway out of the building before he collapsed, fifty-three minutes before a niffler was going to make off with his belt buckle. 

\-----------------------------------

Seraphina Picquery was starting to doze off at her desk, hand still clutching a cup of coffee like a lifeline, when a Patronus burst into her office. Picquery started, upsetting her coffee mug all over transcripts of Grindelwald’s interrogation. 

_ “Harlem, the abandoned textile factory. Healers required,”  _ came Tina Goldstein’s voice from the mouth of a silvery border collie. After giving the message, the Patronus faded away into silver mist. Picquery remained frozen, staring at the spot that the Patronus had occupied. 

She swallowed thickly and pushed herself out of her chair, rushing out of the office to where her secretary was drooling all over a stack of memos. 

“Meyers!” Picquery barked. The sleeping woman woke with a jump and sat back in her chair, a memo sticking to her face. “Send a team of healers and an additional team of Aurors to the abandoned textile factory in Harlem.” 

Meyers eyes widened as she removed the paper from her cheek. “They found him?” she whispered incredulously. 

“So it seems.  _ Now, Meyers.”  _ with that, Picquery turned on the spot and disappeared. 

At the edge of the courtyard, Picquery appeared, apparating in mid-stride. In the middle of the courtyard was the search team, all but a few standing in a semi-circle. Scamander and Tina Goldstein were kneeling on the ground, exchanging words as they bent over something. 

Picquery made her way over to them, face impassive even as her heart tried to beat its way out of her chest. She paused a few feet away from them, unwilling or unable to take the final few steps. She wasn’t sure she wanted to see what they were bent over. 

“Goldstein,” Picquery called. Tina jumped and stood up, brushing dirt of her coat. Her hair was in a disarray and her eyes were glassy. Picquery refused to looked at the prone figure by her feet. “Report.” 

“He’s alive,” Tina said, voice cracking a bit. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve roughly. “He’s real hurt, ma’am, but he’s alive.” 

Behind them, there were soft pops as the healers arrived on scene, rushing towards them. As they approached, the Auror team receded, giving them access and Picquery a clear view of Graves. Her breath caught in her throat. If Goldstein hadn’t said that he was alive, Picquery would have thought they found him too late. 

She had known Graves all her life, it seemed sometimes. Since their first year at Ilvermorny. They had become Aurors together. She had seen him with nearly every kind of injury, many of them life-threatening. She had seen him cut and cursed and crushed and, on one memorable mission, bit by a dragon. She had seen him get hit with a Cruciatus curse and keep on fighting. 

She had never seen him like this, though. 

The medics stood over him, hitting him with diagnostic spell after diagnostic spell to see if he was stable enough to be apparated. She was no healer, but even she could tell that it was bad. Eventually, he was cleared. After Picquery nodded her assent, the medics gathered around and with a twist, they apparated Graves to St. Luke’s. 

“I want this place looked over with a fine-toothed comb,” she ordered the Aurors. She looked around for Scamander. He was handing a niffler a shiny bauble as he tried to coax it back into his suitcase.  

“Scamander!” she called. He shut the suitcase with a snap and looked up, alarmed. She motioned him over to her with a wave of ther hand. He walked over, holding the suitcase in his arms like a child would a teddy bear. 

Picquery snorted. “No need to be so anxious, Mr. Scamander, I’m not going to confiscate it.” 

His lips twitched upward, eyes darting up to meet hers. “Oh, it’s not because of that, really. Or,” he corrected, “it’s not  _ completely  _ because of that.” He paused, smiling sheepishly. “The clasps are a bit faulty. It’s ah, how some of them managed to get out.” 

She level him with a very unimpressed look. “For God’s sake, are you a wizard or not?” She leveled her wand at the case. “ _ Incarcerous.”  _ Ropes materialized from the end of her wand, wrapping firmly around the case. Scamander boggled at the case and then flushed red. 

“Case closed?” he joked weakly. 

Picquery resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “I didn’t call you over because of your case. I wanted to thank you -- again. Between catching Grindelwald and location Director Graves, I don’t know where we’d be without your assistance.” 

“I barely did anything,” Scamander protested. “Nelson found Director Graves, and Evelyn -- er, the Swooping Evil -- caught Grindelwald.” 

“Well, since I can hardly give a official MACUSA commendation to a niffler and a..a Swooping Evil, was it?...I’m giving it to you instead. I’d like to offer you a job as a consultant for MACUSA.” 

Scamander looked skeptical, frowning as he fiddled with the rope around the suitcase. “Which would entail what, exactly?” he asked, belatedly adding a hasty “ma’am.” 

“For one, it would entail permits for all of your creatures. Even the more questionable ones. You’d also get a regular salary from MACUSA. I’m sure that you can needle a research grant or two out of R&D.” 

Scamander stood up a bit straighter. “Well that’s --  _ thank you,  _ Madame President. I don’t know what to say.” 

“You don’t have to say anything. Leave. Sleep on it, I’d say you’ve earned it .” 

“If I may so so, Madame President, you look like you need it more that I do.” 

She glared at him. “You may  _ not  _ say so, Scamander. Goodbye.” 

He paled. “Yes, ma’am.” With a twist, he disapparated. 

Once he was gone, Picquery allowed herself a small smile that faded as quickly as it came when she remembered the state that Percival was in. She inhaled deeply, setting her shoulders back and lifting up her chin. 

“Auror Gillespie, if anything crucial turns up, you can find me at St.Luke’s.” 

\-------------------------------------

Four days after he was brought into the Intensive Magical Care Unit of St. Luke’s, the healers attending Percival Graves determined that he had been almost completely healed from his ordeal. It was a marvel of healing magic, they agreed. During a three day magically-induced coma, eleven bones had been vanished and regrown, scarred skin on his back and arms had become once again smooth and whole, harmful residue from dark magic was scrubbed clean. Atrophied muscles had been rejuvenated and a strict regiment of Nutrient Potions had him once again approaching a healthy weight. It was a shame, the doctors bemoaned, that nothing could be done about the curse scar. 

When Percival Graves woke up without pain for the first time in months, he assumed that he had finally died. He was a bit put out when he found that this was not the case. He had then assumed his rescue was one of Grindelwald's tricks. When he woke up for the first time, healers leaning over him with wands directed at him, he had handled it a bit poorly. 

Within two seconds of opening his eyes, Percival had began swinging at the healers. He managed to wrestle the wand from one, taking off out of the room down the hall in a mad dash, slinging Stunners as he went. He nearly made it out of the IMCU before a terrified intern managed to petrify him. After that, he was pumped full of Calming Draught until he could be convinced that none of them were working for Grindelwald. In retrospect, the whole affair was quite embarrassing. 

After that, he had met with Auror Eckhart, who was acting as interim Director until Percival was cleared for work. He had taken the report of the events that happened during his imprisonment rather well. Grindelwald had impersonated him, which he had already known. The Obscurus was a surprise though. 

Eckhart seemed to be trying to avoid mentioning that the only person who realized that Grindelwald was impersonating him was a British citizen that he had never met. He also avoided mention of Graves’ imprisonment, briefing him instead as if Graves had simply been on an extended vacation instead of locked in a windowless room for half a year. 

Looking in a mirror, it was almost possible to imagine that he had just been on vacation. Graves hated it. He hated the fact that his bodily was so easily set to rights, that almost all of the signs of his suffering were erased so easily. It was the illusion of health, like unblemished skin over a festering wound. 

Before he was handed a mirror for the first time after he awoke, the healer apologised that he hadn’t been able to remove the curse scar on his face. Instead of being dismayed at the disfiguring scar, he was nearly overcome with relief as he looked into the mirror and didn’t see the face that had mocked him and tortured him endlessly for months on end. He traced the angry red line going from his scalp to his chin, thanking the gods that there was some proof of what he went through, a visible explanation for the fact that he felt like he had been broken apart and then badly reassembled. 

_ That’s enough self-pity for now, _ Graves thought to himself as he turned away from the mirror.  _ Might as well do something useful instead before Seraphina gets here.  _

He picked up the case file in front of him. He wanted to know just how much damage that bastard had done in his name. He flipped through idly until he came across the section labelled “Obscurial: Credence Barebone”. He read through it, not feeling at all surprised to find out that that insane Second Salemer had managed to turn a boy into an Obscurial. Then he read a bit further and realized that the Obscurial wasn’t a boy at all. He had been 22. That was  _ unheard  _ of. It should have been impossible. It was almost a shame that Seraphina ordered him to be killed; he could have been one hell of a wizard. 

He was interrupted by a knock at the door. 

“Come in,” he called, closing the file and placing it on an end table. 

“Potion time again, Mr. Graves,” the medi-witch said cheerfully, tray of potions floating in behind her. 

“I don’t suppose these ones are any better tasting?” he asked with a grimace.

“Not at all,” she laughed. “But if you’re a really good boy and you drink it all, I’ll give you a lollipop, sir.” 

He glowered at her as he took the potion, trying not to make a face at the taste. The medi-witch smirked at him, not fooled. 

“Excellent. That should be the last for a while, lucky you.” She took the empty bottle and placed it back on the tray, turning around to leave the room. As she did so, she paused, looking at the floor under the bed. 

“What’s this? I think you must have dropped this, Mr. Graves.” She leaned down and picked up a piece of paper. She placed it on the bed and smiled at him. “Have a nice day, sir,” she said as she walked out of the room. 

He nodded at her, distracted, as he reached for the paper she found. It was a profile on the Obscurial, most of it information that he had already seen in the case file. Credence Barebone, age 22. Deceased.  Information on height, weight, known family. Description of powers. At the very bottom, it said: picture on back side. 

He turned it around, disinterested, to see an impossible face staring back at him. 

Credence Barebone had been killed by aurors on December 17th. It was witnessed by dozens, including the President. How, then, did Percival meet him on the 20th? He couldn’t have imagined him -- how can you imagine a person you’ve never met before? The only explanation was that the boy had somehow survived. Percival’s mind swam as he considered the implications of this revelation. 

“You sure look thoughtful, Percival,” a voice called from the doorway. “What are you brooding about?” Seraphina stood in the doorway, looking over him with a critical eye as Percival tried to nonchalantly put the picture down. “It’s nice to see you looking like yourself again.” 

Percival tried not to wince. “Yeah, slowly starting to feel like it too. Too slowly, though.” 

“Give it time, Percy. So, what do you have there?” she asked, walking in the room. 

Percival looked down at the picture of Credence Barebone. He gave her a half-hearted smile as he tucked the picture into the case file and closed it, coming to a decision. “Nothing much. Just trying to see how much damage control I have to do, Madame President.” 

He hoped this wasn’t going to bite him in the ass. It probably was. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next: where did Credence go off to? Featuring our favorite baker.


	5. Chapter 5

_ New York City, NY. USA. _

_ December 17th, 1926.  _

_ Professor Dumbledore,  _

_ I hope this letter finds you, and Hogwarts, well. I sent this letter via international portkey, so hopefully you receive it soon. I’m sorry it’s been so long, but I’ve not been in a place with a reliable postal system for quite some time. By the time that this letter reaches you, I am sure you will have heard about what has happened here in New York. Grindelwald, impersonating MACUSA’s Director of Security, located an Obscurial and conspired to use him to further his cause, causing considerable damage to the city. That much, I’m sure, is to become public knowledge.  _

_ What I’m am writing to you about will probably not be public knowledge. The Obscurial’s name was Credence Barebone. His mother, a truly deplorable Muggle, had very strong anti-witch sentiments and presumably punished him enough to cause his magic to become parasitic. It is a situation not so dissimilar to the young Sudanese girl who I told you about, with one main difference: Credence was 22 years old.  _

_ It goes against everything known about Obscurials that he lived so long. His control, until the end, must have been remarkable. Unfortunately, President Picquery made the executive decision to have him killed.  _

_ You are the only person who I can think of who might be able to help with the situation that I’ve found myself in, Professor. You know more about the nature of magic than anyone I’ve ever known. The thing is, I think he may still be alive. At the subway, where he was supposedly killed by the aurors, I saw a small dark shape escape into the city. I kept that information to myself. I’m going to try to find him, Professor. I think I can help this one. He deserves better than the lot he was given in life, and he deserves to be a part of this world. So, I’ll get to the point: _

_ How would you recommend rehabilitating an Obscurial who has lived more than twice of his life expectancy? Hypothetically, of course.  _

_ Regards,  _

_ Newt Scamander _

_ PS: How is the phoenix you found? Did you give him a name yet?  _

_ \------------------------------------------ _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ December 24th, 1926 _

_ Mr. Scamander,  _

_ I apologise if Fawkes caused a disturbance when he appeared, but I thought it best to get my reply to you as quickly as possible. If the boy, Credence, is indeed alive, it is the of the utmost importance that he is found. I do not know if it is possible for an Obscurial to restore their magic to a safe balance, but I believe that, having lived so long, Credence might be able to.  _

_ If you find him, it is imperative that his attitude towards magic must change. All of his life, he would have been made to think that the power that lies within him is evil. If he is ever able to use his magic in a peaceful manner, he must accept that magic is just a part of him that is neither good nor evil. Then, you must find an outlet for him to use his magic. He may not be able to use magic through traditional means, so do not be discouraged if a wand does not work.  _

_ Keep in mind: one’s mind and one’s magic are inextricably linked. To heal one, you must heal the other. Be patient with him, and above all, be kind. I am certain that by the time I hear from you next, you’ll have found him. _

_ Hypothetically, of course.  _

_ At the request of your brother, I have attached a letter. He remains a man of few words when worried, I see.  _

_ Regards,  _

_ Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore _

_ PS: Keep Fawkes around for a few days, I’m sure he has missed your company dearly. Happy Christmas.  _

_ \-------------------------------------- _

_ Newt,  _

_ Don’t get too chuffed about surviving Grindelwald, because I’m going to kill you.  _

_ See you soon,  _

_ Theseus  _

_ \-------------------------------------- _

“Bugger.” 

Newt Scamander paled and quickly set Theseus’ letter -- more of a note, really -- aside. 

“Bad news from your professor?” Tina asked absentmindedly as she shuffled through paperwork at the dining room table. In between filling out forms she was eating her way through a bag of pastries at an alarming rate. 

“Yes and no.” Newt explained, looking at the short letter like it was going to bite him. “He gave some vague and encouraging advice about helping Credence as well as forwarding a very concerning letter from my brother.” 

“Brother?” She screwed up her face, trying to remember if Newt had mentioned him before. “I keep on forgetting you have a brother, honestly.” 

“You’d be the first,” Newt smiled ruefully. “Usually people forget that  _ he  _ has a brother.” 

“I can’t see how, you don’t exactly blend in with the crowd.” 

“I’ve picked up some useful camouflage techniques during the course of my research. It’s quite impressive how fast I can duck behind curtains to avoid talking to people.”  

Tina snorted. “You cause more of a disturbance than any guy I’ve ever met. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“I do believe the whole point of camouflage is that you  _ don’t  _ see it, Tina.” 

“Whatever, wise guy.” She walked over to the couch where he was sitting with the letters, carefully avoiding the phoenix who was perched on the lamp, watching her thoughtfully. “Let me see what your old teacher had to say about Credence.” 

She took the letter from it and perused it quickly, eyebrows drawing together as she read. “You weren’t kidding, that is vague. He basically just said to be nice to the kid.” She sat down next to Newt on the couch, still frowning at the letter. “Here, at the end, when he says that he’s sure that you’ll find him by the time you write back. That’s a bit weird, isn’t it? We literally have no idea where he is, or if he’s even alive at all.” 

“Yeah, that’s Dumbledore for you. Plays things close to the chest, that man.” 

She stood back up and began pacing, agitated. “It’s ridiculous! It’s not even helpful! What, does he expect the  _ bird  _ to find him?” 

The phoenix trilled loudly, flapping it’s wings. Newt and Tina froze. The bird fixed them both with a beady stare. 

“Uh, Newt?” She started, not taking her eyes off of the phoenix. 

“Yes, Tina?” 

Feeling like she might be asking a very dumb question, she hesitantly put forth “ _ Could _ it find him?” The phoenix trilled again, shifting its feet restlessly on the edge of the lamp. They looked at the bird suspiciously.

“Haven’t the foggiest.” Newt edged towards the phoenix carefully, head tilted. “Fawkes? Hello, love. Er...could you help us? We’re looking for someone, and it’s quite important. His name is Credence Barebone.” 

Fawkes blinked at him and cawed softly. Then, slowly, he spread his wings. Tina held her breath. 

Fawkes took off, circling around the room as he sang softly. Landing on the kitchen table, he gave to two of them a long, significant look. Then, with great solemnity, he started eating the last of Tina’s pastries. 

“Hey!” she yelped, waving her hands at him as he scarfed down the paczki, tearing into it with his beak. “Shoo! Shoo! Bad bird!” 

She made an incredulous noise as the bird proceeded to ignore them entirely. 

“Huh,” Newt exclaimed. “Guess he was just a bit hungry.” 

“It ate my paczki,” she said disbelievingly. 

Newt narrowed his eyes consideringly at the bird as he mused, “Or is it more appropriate to say that he was a bit  _ peckish _ ?” Tina directed her incredulous stare towards him. “You know, because he’s a bird, get it?” 

She punched him on the arm, hard. “ _ That’s  _ for the pun.” She hit him again. “And  _ that’s _ for the paczki.” 

Newt yelped, rubbing his arm. “It’s not  _ my  _ fault he pilfered it!” he exclaimed, looking extremely affronted as he pointed at the phoenix.

Tina ignored him, instead choosing to pick up the empty paper wrapping and stare at it mournfully. “It was the last one of Jacob’s pastries.” 

“How are you even getting those?” Newt asked while prodding at Fawkes as if the answer of Credence’s location was hidden in his feathers. Fawkes had made himself at home, curling up on the table. “His bakery is under construction, isn’t it?” 

“Free samples for advertisement. I go by at least once a day.” She scowled at the phoenix. “Why’d the bird eat my food, Newt?” 

“I’ve no idea. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a phoenix eating sweets before. Dumbledore must be spoiling him, I’ll have to have a word with him about the proper care and feeding of phoenixes.” 

From the table, Fawkes gave the two of them a disgusted look. 

\-------------------------------------------------

Near what was soon going to be Kowalski’s Bakery, Jacob Kowalski nearly had a heart attack when he stepped the back out of his new store and nearly tripped over a dark-haired young man sleeping in the alley. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a long Credence-central chapter, finally!

After he had left Possibly-Mr.Graves, Credence wandered.

It was early morning, early enough that the city was quiet and still. Credence became aware for the first time that he was cold. He sat down on the steps of a bank -- one that Ma had given sermons on before. With a start, remembered that she was dead.

Credence looked around, wondering why everything looked so normal. He didn’t remember much from That Night (as he was referring to it in his head), but he was relatively certain that he had wrecked most of this street. Come to think of it, Credence hadn’t seen any damage anywhere while he had been wandering around aimlessly.

With a sinking stomach, Credence began to wonder if he was losing his mind. Maybe none of it happened. He might just be going crazy from the demons that Ma said plagued him. If he never destroyed the city, did that mean that she was still alive? His stomach twisted uncomfortably at the thought. He wondered what it meant for his soul that he had no joy at the prospect. His hands were trembling again, and he stuffed them in his pockets, telling himself that it was only because of the cold.

 _The longer I stay away, the worse it will be for me,_ he thought. Clenching his jaw, he picked himself up and started making his way towards the church.

Around him, the city was starting to wake up, people milling down the sidewalks on the way to work and carts full of goods bringing wares into the city. It was distressingly normal. Credence spied an old newspaper flitting around on the sidewalk. He plucked it from the ground and stood close to a building, smoothing the wrinkled paper out while shrinking away from the rapidly filling street.

The date read December 18th, the day after That Night. Credence didn’t know what today was, but he was relatively sure that the paper was a few days old. _If it had really happened_ , he thought, _the news would have reported on it._

The first page was about the weather. Credence’s stomach sank as he flipped through the rest of the paper, looking for any sign of the events that he patchily remembered. There was nothing. His thoughts were torn. On one hand, he evidently hadn’t destroyed most of the city. On the other hand, he was definitely losing his mind. Credence crumpled up the paper and dropped it on the ground, mind racing and feeling like he might throw up. Then, paranoid that his Ma was going to appear from thin air and chastise him for littering, he picked up the paper and put it in a bin.

He started to walk towards the church again automatically as he tried to figure out what was real and what wasn’t. Destroying the city apparently wasn’t. Was Mr. Graves? Was Miss Tina? Was magic? The only thing that made him have any faith in his memories was the darkness that currently was trying to crawl out of his throat and burst from his skin. He didn’t make that up, at least.

Eventually, he reached the street that the church was on. It was flanked on both sides with buildings that were tall and close to the street, so Credence couldn’t see it from this angle. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears. His hands were shaking where they were crammed within the shallow pockets of his jacket. He swallowed thickly and approached the church. He idly thought that Ma was going to be furious that he didn’t know where his belt was.

He grit his teeth and walked faster, thinking that the quicker he got this over with, the better. Trying to control his breathing and whatever that _thing_ was inside of him, he pulled the door hard, only to almost yank his arm off when it didn’t open. He jiggled the door again. Locked. _Ma never leaves the church locked at this time of day._ Every day, the doors opened at 5:15. _It must be almost eight in the morning._

Frowning, he went around the church. The back door was locked, but Credence knew how to work the handle so the door popped open. It swung inward and he stepped in cautiously. The hall was dark. He wondered if Ma and his sisters were out giving a sermon already. Credence turned on the knob on the electric light out of habit as he walked into the main room and then stopped dead in his tracks.

It was wrecked. The balcony and stairs were blown to bits. There was a gaping hole in the ceiling. The floor was strewn with debris, save for one spot at right below the balcony. Credence looked at the bare spot in horror as the ruined face of his Ma swam into his mind’s eye. He started to hyperventilate as he doubled over, clutching his head and backing up against the half-standing staircase.  

It had happened. He had killed her. He was a monst--

“--edence? Credence is that you?” a small, tearful voice eventually filtered through the self-hating fog of his thoughts.

Credence looked up, lowering his hands from his fear-streaked face. He stared, stricken, into Modesty’s wide eyes.

“M-Modesty?” he choked tearfully. “Oh god, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, please forgive me, oh god,” he babbled at her, running his hands through his  hair before placing them back on his face like he was trying to hide from her gaze.

“What are you _talking_ about Credence?” she breathed, coming closer to put her hand on his arm. At her touch, he sank down the wall onto the floor, curling around himself so tight that the eight year old girl stood tall over him.

“Credence, where have you been? _”_ she asked, trying to lift one of his hands away from his face only for him to pull it back. “Chastity and I were so worried.”

“How you can you even _look_ at me?” he said tightly, eyes boring into the floor. “I killed her, Modesty, you and Chastity must hate me. _I_ hate me”

She looked at him in askance as she kneeled by him, brushing some of the debris away with her hand. “But Credence, it wasn’t your _fault_. You couldn’t have known that the ceiling would collapse where she was standing. How are you to blame for that?”

Credence look up at her with a tearfully bemused face. “Modesty, I don’t understand. You saw what happened.” Slowly, he began to realize that she didn’t remember the monster that he had turned into. Just like everybody else.

Her face hardened. Softly, she said, “It must have been God’s will, Credence.”

He flinched. Whatever the thing inside him was, he was pretty sure that God had nothing to do with it.

Modesty misunderstood his reaction, saying “Credence, it _must_ have been. Freak accidents like that always are.”

He refused to meet her gaze and his silence continued. Modesty looked at him sadly.

“Credence, she _hurt_ you.”

He winced, screwing his eyes shut and pulling his knees to his chest. “I deserved it.” he said hollowly, echoing the sentiment that had been told to him for years. “She only punished me when I broke the rules. When I was sinful.”

Modesty chewed on her lip as she regarded him worriedly. “The city sent Chastity and I to a foster home. The same foster home, even.” She sat down next to him, laying her head on his knee as the looked as the wreckage of what used to be their home.

She continued, “I asked if they could take you, too, once you showed up. But they said that because you’re not a kid they couldn’t.”

Credence continued to stare at the floor, mouth firmly shut.

“Credence, I know it makes me a sinner to not be more sad after Ma dying, but I _like_ it there. The lady’s real nice. She cooks all this stuff that I never tried before, and we haven’t had to have soup once.”

There was a long minute of silence before Modesty lifted her head off of his leg and turned to him. “I gotta go, ok? I probably already missed breakfast. But it’s ok, they probably won’t even yell.”

She waited for a response, and sighed when she got none. She walked away, towards the back door. Just before the reached the door and paused, twirling around to look at  Credence as her face twisted up.

“Don’t you see what kind of a chance this is for you?” she implored him. “You can do anything you want, Credence. You don’t have to be afraid anymore, she’s gone!” She scowled at him when he didn't reply.

“This is a chance you to be happy, Credence. For all three of us to be happy.” She walked out of the church. When she was out of sight, Credence put his head on his knees and sobbed.

After a while, the church was silent once more. Credence felt like he didn’t have any more tears left in his body, probably due in part to the fact that he couldn’t remember the last time he drank anything. He got up slowly and wiped his face with a dusty sleeve as he hollowly shuffled to the kitchen. Filling a dented tin cup in the sink, he drank deeply, refilling it again and again until his stomach protested. Then he walked up to his room, carefully navigating the broken stairs. He dropped into a wooden chair by his bed and began to wonder what on earth he was going to do now.

He couldn’t stay here, and more importantly he didn’t want to. He would have to find a job and a place to stay. Credence rubbed a hand over his face, sighing deeply.

“Fools fold their idle hands, leading them to ruin,” he quoted to himself in a whisper, hearing the echo of his Ma through the words. Getting up, he grabbed a large bag from the hall closet. Into it, he put all of his worldly possessions: two spare pairs of clothes, a pocket knife, a wallet, a comb, a rosary. A battered bible.

Then he went down the end of the hall and stopped in front of his Ma’s door, hesitating a long while before going inside. He walked over to the impeccably made bed and opened the drawer on the beside table. Beside his Ma’s bible was a wooden box. Unheeded by the lock on the front, he put the box under his foot and stepped down on it, hard. The lid cracked off and the contents spilled across the floor.

Credence's eyes widened as he gathered up the bills and change on the floor and began to quickly count it up. There was nearly thirty-five dollars, more money than Credence had ever seen in his life. If he was careful, he could stretch that for weeks. His wallet felt strangely heavy after he put all of the money inside. Credence looked around slowly, taking what was probably going to be his last look at the place. He walked outside feeling oddly lighter, despite the heavy bag slung across his shoulders.

The streets had filled when he was inside the church. He looked around nervously, hands wringing the strap of his bag as he walked down the street. He looked in storefront after storefront, only a few of them bearing a “Help Wanted” sign. The stores that _did_ have signs sent him out after one good look at him.

After several hours of this, Credence felt exhausted. His feet hurt and his stomach felt hollow. Adjusting his bag restlessly and patting his pocket to reassure himself that his wallet was still there, he looked around him for a place where he could take a short break. Nothing looked promising. Walking a bit further down the street, he spied a narrow alley next to a storefront that was closed for construction. He ducked inside quickly, walking down far enough that the hustle and bustle from the busy street dulled into a quiet murmur.

He canvassed the alley for the cleanest spot and sat down, not bothering to shrug off the bag. _Fifteen minutes,_ he told himself, leaning back against the brick wall and letting his eyes flutter shut. _Then I’ll get back out there and look for a job._

He was asleep in under two.

\----------------------------------------------

Jacob Kowalski stepped out of the contractor's office with a smile on his face and a spring in his step. Hailing a cab in the street, he began to marvel once more at his good fortune. Two weeks ago he was slowly dying in a canning factory, and in a less than a month he was going to open the doors of his bakery. His life had done a complete 180. Somewhere, his Nana was smiling down on him.

Not for the first time, he wracked his brain trying to think of who his mysterious benefactor was. Like every time before, he drew a blank. He had no clue, and yet deep in his gut he felt like he was missing part of the picture. Like he was forgetting something really important.

It was probably the lack of sleep. Ever since he’d gotten that bank loan, he’d had crazy dreams. Weird animals and a soft accent. Golden hair and hot coco. A suitcase with an entire world inside. Jacob was choosing to chalk it up to the fact that he’s been living on the samples he’s been making to advertise for his bakery (free baked goods worked better than flyers, he had figured). Too much sugar. 

The cab rolled to a stop before he knew it. Getting out and tipping the driver generously, he surveyed his bakery with the look of a proud parent. It really was coming along. He smiled to himself as he opened the door and went inside. It wouldn’t be long. The front of the store was almost done. It was the kitchen that was gonna take the longest. He had been baking his samples out of the tiny kitchen in the apartment above the new store. He’d probably rent it out after the store opened, but it was the only kitchen he had for the moment that wasn’t all the way across the neighborhood.

Going into the kitchen, he put on a pot of coffee for himself. Then he walked towards the back, intending on smoking a quick cigarette before he started agonizing over his recipes again. Taking the one out of the pack in his pocket, he stepped outside, striking a match against the wall as he went. He nearly set his shoe on fire after he dropped the match when he nearly tripped over a boy sleeping outside of the door.

He swore as he stomped out the match. At the sound of his voice, the boy violently jerked awake. At the sight of Jacob standing in front of him, he scrambled back and instinctively raised his hands in front of his face. 

“Woah, woah, kid. It’s alright!” Jacob said stepping back and raising his hands in a placating gesture. “Sorry I scared ya, it’s just I wasn’t really expecting there to be anyone here, you know?” He tried to smile reassuringly. The kid didn’t look like he bought it, but his hands slowly went back to the ground.

“I'll go somewhere else,” the boy mumbled at the ground, staring at a spot in front of Jacob’s feet. His shoulders were hunched up to his ears.

“No need to move on my account,” Jacob said, looking over the boy. At a closer glance he looked a bit older. He also looked like someone had put him through the wringer. He was about the saddest looking sight Jacob had seen all week.

The boy -- young man, more like -- peered up at Jacob suspiciously.

Jacob sighed and slowly sat down on the steps of the bakery’s back door. The boy watched him as if he was going to bolt at any sudden movement from Jacob. Jacob had met feral cats who were more trusting than kid in front of him.

“What’s your name?” he asked after the long silence had made it clear that the boy wasn’t going to start talking on his own.

The boy jumped at bit at the sound of his voice. “....Credence,” the boy said finally.

“Got a last name, Credence?” Jacob asked.

Credence shook his head tersely, jaw tight.

“I’m Jacob Kowalski,” Jacob offered easily. He gestured to the building to his left. “That’s my bakery. Or, it’s gonna be. There’s some work to do in there still.” The boy said nothing, continuing to look at the ground.

“You got anywhere to go, Credence?”. The boy opened his mouth to speak. Jacob added, before the boy spoke, “The truth, please.”

A frown twisted Credence's lips. He shook his head.

Jacob made a split second decision. “Alright,” he said. “Come on inside, will ya?”

Credence looked up sharply. He narrowed his eyes at Jacob. “Why?” he asked flatly.

Jacob shrugged. “You look like you could use a bite to eat. I got a ton of pastries in there that are gonna get thrown out if they don’t get eaten soon.” Jacob could see the internal conflict that was warring in the kids head.

After a few seconds, Credence slowly stood up. He still looked like he had half a mind to run away. Jacob smiled brightly at him and turned to the door. He opened it wide, beckoning Credence in with a wave of his arm. Credence walked in, looking like he was going to the gallows rather than walking into a bakery.

Jacob walked in after and closed the door gently, trying not to spook the kid. “Sorry about the mess, Credence, it’s a bit of a work in progress.”

Credence looked around warily, seeming to check every corner of the room as if something was going to jump out at him. Meanwhile, Jacob plucked a covered basket from the front. He directed Credence to a chair at the unfinished counter and placed the basket in front of him. Credence didn’t make a move towards it.

Jacob rolled his eyes a bit and plucked the cloth cover off, nudging the basket a bit more towards the boy. “Eat, kid. As many as you want, these are all leftovers from today.”  

Credence stared with wide eyes at the assortment of baked goods in the basket, slowly reaching in and plucking out an apple danish. Looking like he was expecting to be yelled at, he made a small, tentative bite. If possible, his eyes got even wider. His next few bites were considerably bigger.

Jacob smiled a bit and got two mugs out of a box near the wall. It was always nice to have his food appreciated. He poured steaming coffee into both mugs and then got some cream from the icebox. He set one of the mugs and the glass jar near Credence, who had finished the danish and was tearing into a sesame roll.

“How do you take your coffee, Credence? Cream and sugar?” Jacob asked as he poured cream into his own coffee.

Credence paused, swallowing down a large bite and looking down at his hands. “I don’t know, sir. I’ve never been allowed to have it before.”

Jacob bit his tongue before he could blurt out a question about the “been allowed” part of the that sentence. Instead, he said, “Lots of cream and sugar, then. Drinking it black is a bit of an acquired taste,” as he fixed Credence a cup.

The boy took the mug, giving it a guarded look. He took a careful sip and then made a face. Jacob pressed his lips together in an effort to stop the smile that was forming. “I didn’t really like it the first time I tried it, either,” he assured the boy.

“It-It’s alright, I just wasn’t expecting…” Credence took another tentative sip. “I think it’s growing on me.” He grabbed another danish from the basket.

Jacob took a long drink out of his own cup and then placed it on the counter. “So,” he began. Credence stiffened, preparing to be kicked out. “You looking for a job, kid? ‘Cause I’m hiring.”

Credence look at Jacob like he expected the man to yell “April Fools!” at him.

“I’m not messing with you, I really do need some help around here.”

“I...” Credence worried his lip with his teeth as he looked into his coffee cup. “I don’t know how to bake, Mr. Kowalski.”

“That’s great!” Jacob exclaimed.

Credence gave him a strange look.

Jacob grinned at him. “That just means I don’t gotta break you of any bad habits.”

Credence’s lips twitched upwards minutely. Jacob felt a strong sense of pride well up that the frown was gone from the young man’s face for a couple seconds.

“Come with me, I’ll give you a tour and I’ll pitch the job to you.” Seeing Credence’s quick longing look at the basket, he added, “Bring the food with you.”

Credence followed Jacob around the bakery, pastries in hand, as Jacob painted a verbal picture of what the finished bakery was going to look like and the help that he’d need. No interacting with customers needed, Jacob said. He really just wanted someone to help with prep and look after the kitchen while Jacob helped the customers in front. There’s a couple weeks before the place opens, so that means there’s plenty of time for a crash course in baking, Jacob explained. Credence took in all of the information silently and with increasing astonishment as Jacob rattled off things like salary, vacation time, and sick days.

Jacob stopping, pausing for breath after the long spiel. Before Credence could think of anything to say, Jacob went on, “You said you’re not staying anywhere at the moment?”

Credence shook his head mutely, still clutching the now-empty basket in his arms. Jacob made his way to a door off the front of the store that Credence had assumed was a closet. Jacob opened it to reveal a set of stairs. He smiled at Credence and started heading upstairs.

“It came with the store,” Jacob explained as they entered. Credence looked around the small apartment. There was a small kitchen overtaken with baking supplies. Beyond that, there was a room that measured probably 15 by 15 feet, furnished with only a bare desk, a chair and a small bed.

“That door goes to the bathroom, and that one goes to the closet.” Jacob pointed to the two doors across from the kitchen. He paused, looking at the young man. “You look confused.”

“I’m not sure why you’re giving me a tour of your apartment, sir.” At seeing Jacobs expression change, Credence’s shoulders hunched and he hastily added, “It’s a very nice place, sir.”

“No, no, Credence. I mean, I _own_ this apartment, but I don’t _live_ here. I got a place a couple streets over.”

Jacob could see that Credence wasn’t really getting it. “Kid,” he said. “I’m saying that if you want the job, you can stay here.”

The boy frowned at Jacob. “Why?” he asked again in that flat way of his. “You don’t know me. Why would you offer a job and an apartment to someone you met less than an hour ago?”

Jacob rubbed his neck absentmindedly. “It’s a way of paying if forward, I guess.” He hesitated, and then continued. “Credence, less than two weeks ago I was working in a canning factory. I hated it. It was always a dream of mine to cook for a living, but I fought in the war and well, life has a funny way of not going the way you want it too. So I decided to try to get my life back on track anyway, and I went to the bank to try to get a loan for this place.”

He shifted, giving Credence a self-deprecating smile. “Got shot down right away, of course. No collateral for the bank, no loan. I thought that was the end of it, and I had pretty much resigned myself to working in that factory for the rest of my life.”

“What happened?” asked Credence, too caught up in what Jacob was saying to remember to be timid.

“Next day, on my way to work, some guy runs right into me and then hurries off. Didn’t see who he was but he knocked my case right out of my hands. I got up and went to go into work when I realized that the guy had switched out our suitcases. I opened it, and there was a fortune's worth of these weird silver eggs in the case along with a note.”

Credence leaned forward, attention rapt. “What did the note say?”

“Said I was too good to be wasting away in that factory and to use the silver to get my bakery. Nothing else, no name or nothing. I turned around and went straight to the bank. Got my loan by lunch and bought this place by the end of the day.”

“Did you ever find out who gave you the silver?”

Jacob shrugged helplessly. “Nope. Random act of kindness, seems like.” He smiled at Credence. “So you see, it’s only fair that I pass it on. I don’t need this apartment, but I do need some help. Whaddaya say, kid? Want the job?”

Credence blinked furiously and pressed his lips together. He darted up to look Jacob in the eyes and nodded jerkily. “Alright.”

Jacob outstretched his hand to Credence, who shook it gingerly. “Let’s draw up a contract, ok? Then I’ll tell you all about these new recipes I’ve been dreaming up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Graves goes back to work too soon and pays for it. Credence settles in to the bakery, but a not-so-chance encounter puts him at great risk.


	7. Chapter 7

December 28th,  1926.

Percival Graves was discharged from St. Luke’s three days after Christmas and five days later than he wanted to be. He was sick of healers, sick of potions, sick of having to constantly talk about Grindelwald. As the first of about a hundred favors she owed him for not noticing he was missing, Seraphina had picked up a new pair of clothes for him. She hadn’t asked about the perfectly good suit belonging to him that was already hanging in the hospital closet, taken from his apartment. Just looking at it made Percival’s skin crawl, knowing that Grindelwald had walked around in it.

Percival swept his eyes across the room, double-checking that he wasn’t forgetting anything. In front of him, the healer was reading off the discharge paperwork to him. Potions schedules, follow up appointments. A reference to a mind healer that Percival had no wish to follow up on. Finally, after all of the boxes had been checked and all of initials scribbled, the healer handed Percival the long, narrow box that contained his wand. Percival took it but didn’t open it, instead setting it down on the bed as he picked up his bag.

“Do you have someone who is accompanying you home, Mr. Graves?” the healer asked, not looking up from the paperwork that she was signing.

He scowled at her. “I’m perfectly capable of going home by myself.”

“Of course.” She gave the paperwork one last look. “Well, you’re all set to leave. Remember to take your potions on time.” He gave her a short nod as he put on his coat. With one last encouraging smile, she left the room.

Once she was gone, he turned his attention to the wand-box on the bed. He slipped the top off, thinking, _How nice that they removed the “Evidence” sticker from it before giving it to me._ His hand reached towards it, hesitating. He grabbed it stiffly and immediately dropped it as an overwhelming wave of _wrong_ swept over him.

He looked at the wand lying innocently on the bed with a look of utmost betrayal. He had had that wand since he turned eleven. Ebony with a wampus hair core, fifteen inches long, unyielding. It chose him. No longer, it seems. Percival grit his teeth, choosing not to let it bother him. As a member of one of the oldest American wizarding families, he was taught to do wandless magic before he even started as Ilvermorny. He'd do without a wand for now. Throwing the wand back in the box, he walked out of the room, heading for the nearest apparation point.

As he walked, he tried not to think too hard about what he was going to find at his apartment or the mess he was going to have to clean up when he went back to work. Desperately grasping for a topic that didn’t make him want to throw up, his thoughts drifted towards the Obscurial, Credence Barebone. He still wasn’t sure why he didn’t tell anyone that he saw the boy the night he was found.

The Auror team was baffled by the fact that the warded door had been blown clear off his hinges. Percival made vague allusions to the wards needing to be charged, their power fading after Grindelwald was locked up. Then he told them that he just blasted his way out using the last of his power.

It was a testament to how far the Department’s standards had fallen that the investigative team actually bought that bull.

He wondered where the kid was and if he was doing alright. Percival had read Maj and No-maj papers alike in the IMCU. Nothing indicated that the Obscurus was still wreaking havoc anywhere. Hopefully, that meant that the kid had a lid on it again, not that he was lying dead in a ditch somewhere. According to the reports, Credence Barebone never knew that the man who he was interacting with wasn’t really Percival. With that in light, the kids confusion at finding Percival locked up in that abandoned no-maj building made a lot more sense. Percival was surprised that Credence didn’t kill him on sight. Grateful, but surprised.

Percival finally reached the apparation point, having successfully avoided everyone but the house elf who was working the elevator. With a twist, he apparated a block away from the small brownstone that had been a present from Percival’s father when he became an Auror. He continued to dwell on Barebone in order to stave off the rising anxiety.

The more he had read over the report, especially the transcripts from Tina and that Scamander guy, the more he questioned Seraphina’s decision. Especially since the kid hasn’t caused any more trouble since he was "killed". He didn’t want to dwell on that, either, as Seraphina had been causing a slew of complicated feelings (mostly anger and disappointment) that he didn’t want to examine until he was good and drunk.  

Finally, he was standing in front of his home. The wards had long since been stripped away by curse breakers after Grindelwald was captured. Despite fact that Aurors tore the place apart investigating his disappearance, Seraphina told him that she ordered everything to be put back exactly how it was found. He unlocked the door and went in, lighting up the place with an wave of his hand.

As with his wand, the feeling of _wrong_ swept over him. The Aurors had no doubt done their jobs well. Everything was tidily in place. However,  things everywhere were in the _wrong_ place. He walked in, taking his coat off but still carrying it. There was a new painting in the hallway, replacing one that he bought shortly after graduation. His houseplants were missing from the windowsills. The end table was on the other side of the couch. He wandered into the kitchen. The mugs were on a difference shelf. Several bottles of his best wine were gone. He didn’t even know where his coffee pot was, and there was a kettle on the stove that hadn’t been there. Percival hated tea.

Everywhere he looked, things were off. Everywhere he looked, he saw signs of Grindelwald. In the living room, in hallway. Seeped into the floor and the walls. Percival sat at the kitchen table and shut his eyes tight, trying to beat down the panic that was starting to come over him. He thought of Grindelwald wearing his clothes and making tea on his stove and sleeping in his bed. Of breathing this air, of _living Percival’s life_ for half a year.

Percival scrambled off the chair and stood over the sink, feeling like he was going to puke. He grabbed a glass and went to fill it with water, but dropped it when the realized that Grindelwald must have drank out of it. It tumbled on the floor and shattered, but Percival barely registered the sound over the white noise of his panic.

 _I can’t do this,_ he thought.

Percival realized that he couldn’t name a single thing in his life that hadn’t been irrevocably tainted by Gellert Grindelwald. Percival would never be free of him, he would always see him in the mirror and feel him in his wand and hear him in sounds that his house made in the middle of the night.  It was like he never left that room that he was imprisoned in.

Percival put his coat back on. He was going to find a hotel.

\--------------------------------------------------

Credence came in through the back of the bakery, trying to skirt past Jacob before the man realize that he was already back.

“Hey, Credence!” No such luck.

Credence mumbled a greeting as he walked towards the apartment entrance.

“You back already?” Jacob continued, still looking down at a pile of dough as he molded it into some sort of alien shape. “How’d shopping go?”

Credence tried to figure out how to get through this interaction without telling Jacob that he barely made it into the grocer’s before he fled back empty-handed. He had then spent 20 minutes in an alley trying not to disappear into a black cloud and wreck the store.

At Credence's continued silence, Jacob looked up from his project. Upon seeing Credence’s hunched shoulders and distinct lack of shopping bags, his face softened.

“Oh, you didn’t go yet?” Jacob asked. Credence shook his head. He didn’t really go in. Not technically.

“Good. I need to pick up a few things later. How about you tag along with me?”

“Uh--”

“Swell.” Jacob turned back to the dough, trying to mold it back into shape.

Credence up at him, thankful that Jacob gave him an easy out of the conversation. That he didn’t try to pry. He was an observant guy, Credence knew, much more observant than people gave him credit for. He seemed to have a sixth sense for knowing where Credence’s boundaries were. Prodding up against them, occasionally pushing them back, but never overstepping. Not really.

Instead of going up the stairs, Credence hesitantly approached the counter where Jacob was working. He slid onto a stool and watched for a bit. Jacob gave him a small smile when he sat down, but didn’t say anything.

After a few minutes, Credence quietly said, “I tried to go to the store.” He paused, visibly uncomfortable. “I even got inside but,”  He fiddled with the cuffs of his sleeves, worrying the edges between his fingers. “--but I couldn’t.”

Credence scowled at himself, displeased with the barrier between what he was thinking and what he could get to come out of his mouth. Jacob silently slid him some dough to knead, and Credence went about the task with perhaps a bit more force than necessary.

He continued as he wrestled with the thick dough, “I _have_ gone shopping before. All the time. We’d go twice a week, maybe more when there were a lot of kids stopping into the church for soup. But,” he stopped, glaring at the dough like it was the source of all of his woe. “I’ve only ever bought what she told me to. Never anything for myself.”

He kneaded harder, leaning into it. “So I went in today, and I thought it was going to be easy. But-but I got there, and there was so much stuff and there were so many people. And they all knew exactly what they wanted, but I stood in front of a display of six different kinds of apples and I froze for five minutes and then walked out without getting anything.” He furrowed his brow, trying to put the issues into simple terms.

“Mr. Kowalski, I’ve never gotten to _choose_ things before.” He licked his lips, unused to talking so much at once. He kept his eyes fixed on the dough, which had been kneaded within an inch of it’s life.

Looking up, he found that Jacob had stopped working and was instead looking at him, sans his usual easy smile. Credence’s face reddened as he began to regret his outburst.

Seeing him start to shrink, Jacob spoke up. “Credence,” he began gently, “that’s alright.”

Credence shook his head. “It’s pathetic,” he bit out.

“I served in the Expeditionary Force, have I mentioned that before?” Credence shook his head.

Jacob continued on, saying, “I joined up in ‘18 and got out in ‘24. Way later than everyone else it seems. Anyway. I spent 6 years saying ‘sir-yes-sir’ and marching wherever people told be to march and fighting everywhere they told me to fight. When I came home, everyone else I knew who had came back had already been home for over a year. Already settled back into civilian life. So I get back after 6 years of wearing a uniform, and suddenly I’m free to wear whatever I want. I went into the store, and the first shirt I saw, I ordered one in every color that they had because I was so out of practice picking out my own clothes. Didn’t know what to get, so I just did one of each.”

He laughed and said, “Didn’t even end up wearing most of them, they were terrible colors. But it got easier, after a bit.” He looked at Credence steadily. “I don’t know your story, Credence, and I won’t make you tell if before you want to. If you ever want to. But I get the impression that you’ve been following orders for way longer than I have. It’s hard, being able to do what you wanna do when you’re not used to it. But it’s gonna get easier, Credence. I swear. 

“Ok, that’s enough heart-to-hearts for the day, dontcha think? Here, have a bear claw.” Credence accepted the pastry and fled upstairs, sniffling but feeling lighter.

\--------------------------------------------------------

Seraphina Picquery gave Percival three days of respite before tracking him down to the hotel that he was staying at. She rapped on the room door sharply, fuming that he chose a no-maj hotel, presumably to dissuade her from going in herself. From down the hall, the manager lurked, looking at her suspiciously.

“Alright, Percy--”

“--Don’t call me Percy.”

She started over. “Alright, _Percy.”_ He glowered at her. She glowered back. “Would you let me in already? This manager is probably two minutes from calling the police on me because I have the gall to be female and black in his upscale establishment.”

Percival sighed and stood aside, letting her storm inside the room. He looked down the hall to see the manager approaching his room. Percival signed at waved his hand towards the man. “ _Confundo,_ ” he muttered. The manager stopped on his tracks, trying to remember why he was in the hallway. Percival smirked and turned back, only to have Seraphina level an incredulous glare at him.

“ _Really,_ Percival? You’re just enchant a no-maj right in front of the President?”

Percival rolled his eyes, walking back towards the armchair he had been occupying all day. “What, you going to take me in, Sera?”

“As much as I’d like to have a discussion about the Director of Security’s lax attitude about upholding Rappaport’s Law, that isn’t what I came here for.”

“What _are_ you here for, again?” He reached for his glass of whiskey, only for Seraphina to grab it from him. She then slapped a thick folder onto the table.

“I’m staging an intervention. You’re not going to live out of a no-maj hotel, Percival. I won’t allow it.”

“If I ever go back to that apartment, Seraphina, I’ll incendio it to the ground.” He stared at her mulishly. “Even you can’t make me, Madame President.” He grabbed the empty glass from her and refilled it.

“Don’t you ‘Madame President’ me. And stop being so damn dramatic and just open the folder.”

He sigh longsufferingly and opened it. He frowned at the contents, and then at her.

Seraphina stared him down. “You’re going to pick one today, or I’m not letting you come back to work in two days. And before you insist that I can’t do that, please remember that I most definitely can.”

“I can’t believe I actually voted for you,” he hissed.  She looked unimpressed. “Keep that up, and I’ll ban you from the building until Easter. Don’t think I won’t.” Seraphina had been emphatically clear on how foolish she thought it was for Percival to get back to work so soon.  

Percival flipped through the listings, discarding most of them right away. “Got any in here with a yard and big windows?” He looked over at the hotel window that spanned the length of the room. “I’m not doing so well being in cooped up, these days.”

Seraphina’s expression softened for a minute. “Yeah, some of the ones towards the back.”

He looked at the first such listing. “This one looks alright.”

“It’s half the size of your old place,” she pointed out.

“I don’t exactly entertain much, Sera. I think I’ll make due.”

She stood up, offering her arm to him. “Alright, let’s check those ones out, Percy,”

He grabbed her arm, snarling “I said don’t call me that, you god damned --”

With a pop, they disappeared.  

\----------------------------------------------------

Two days later, Percival was wishing he had refused to go house hunting with Seraphina. For one, she was maniacal about house hunting. Some of the places, she barely walked inside without snorting derisively and walking back out. In the ones that passed muster on the first glance, she had a list of questions and specifications for the sellers that left Percival’s mind swimming.

His requirement for a places were that there were big windows, a yard, and that Gellert Grindelwald had never been inside of it. Seraphina on the other hand, had strong opinions on things such as backsplashes and the type of wood on the floors. Eventually, they found a place that Graves liked that Seraphina determined was “livable”.

Seraphina’s autocratic real-estate hunting methods aside, the new place wasn’t really was what bother Percival. He liked it, even if he was still sleeping on conjured furniture. No, the house was the least of his problems.

Striding into the Woolworth building, Percival pretended that he didn’t realize that every eye in the place was on him. He quickly lost patience with pretending as they continued to gape at him. He paused and looked around him with a hard glare. In the atrium, many MACUSA employees suddenly remembered pressing appointments and scurried off, spooked.

Percival stepped into the elevator and nodded to Red, who grumbled and pressed the Major Investigations button. The short ride was spent in silence, which Percival deeply appreciated. He nodded again to the elf as he walked out of the elevator.

Half of the conversations in the Auror department died down when Percival walked in. He wondered, as once again all eyes were turned on him, if he should have prepared something to say. At the moment, he just wanted to yell at them “W _hy didn’t you notice? Why didn’t any of you notice?”_ He was caught off guard by how angry he suddenly was.

Instead, he asked, “Don’t any of you have work to do?” Instead of breaking the tension, it seemed to increase it. Percival was horrified to see that more than a few of his Aurors had glassy eyes and were looking at him mournfully.

One of the junior Aurors opened his mouth, looking like he was going to say something heartfelt and sappy. Percival raised his hand and shook his head, looking extremely uncomfortable to be on the receiving end of dozens of mournful and deeply ashamed gazes.

He raised his hand to his temple. “I don’t want to hear it.” This was obviously the wrong thing to say. Half of the Aurors flinched, and one man in the back started to sniffle. “No, not like--” he sighed deeply.

“I don’t blame any of you,” he lied convincingly. “That being said, anyone who apologizes to me will be on desk duty for the next twenty years. Now get back to work, I’m busy.”

With that, he stalked away to his office. _That should do it,_ he thought to himself.

That did not do it. The threat of desk duty stopped anyone from verbally apologizing, but it didn’t stop them from walking on eggshells around him or hovering around his office door, peeking in on him. He couldn’t tell if it was out of pity or out of guilt, but he despised it.

The anger never went away, either. It burned in the pit of his stomach as he read, with growing horror and outrage, the things that Grindelwald had done in the past six months. Demoting the best junior Auror he had was the least of it. He had signed orders that had weakened the Departments sway in Congress. He had pushed for bills that went directly against what Percival worked for. He had been ordering harsher and harsher sentences for even misdemeanors. For god’s sake, here was a record about a petty thief getting her wand snapped!

Percival felt sick. The signs were right here. They were obvious, but no one even questioned it. No one questioned the Director suddenly leaving work hours before he used to, supporting bills that went against his record, issuing unjustly fair punishments and nonsensical orders.

Is that what they thought of him, out there? Is that the type of person that his employees thought that he was, that they didn’t even question those actions? Cruel and muggle hating and dark.  The anger turned to nausea as his stomach turned.

Grindelwald didn’t seem to be pretending very much at all. Maybe that was why he chose Percival, he saw somehow that Percival was similar enough to him that he would barely have to act.

Percival tried to ignore the thoughts, tried to ignore the fact that he was surrounded by people who didn’t know him from the most darkest wizard in the world. This had been a mistake. He was longing for his empty new brownstone, the only place in the city that didn’t currently remind Percival of Grindelwald.

Percival looked at the clock. 1:47. Well, that was enough of that. He was taking a lunch break, and the jury was out on whether he was going to bother coming back today at all. He spelled the impossibly large pile of paperwork into his briefcase and stalked out of the office. No one spoke as strode through the department. He had the juvenile urge to throw them an obscene hand gesture.

He wasn’t ready to be back here. He could see Seraphina smugly saying “I told you so,” in his mind’s eye. There’s no way he was going to allow her the satisfaction of actually saying that, though, so he would just have to lock her out of his place’s wards for a few days. Or weeks.

Once he was outside the Woolworth Building, Percival realized that he never actually decided where he was going to go now. He didn’t feel like going back home, not when the entire place reminded him that he had yet to buy anything to put in it.

He sighed and rubbed his face, flinching as his fingers ran over the scar that he kept on forgetting was there. Standing on the steps of the building, he decided to walk home instead of expending the energy to apparate. Although he didn’t want to admit it, his magic was acting more sluggishly than usual. It seems that six months of imprisonment had an effect on his stamina, not that he was ever going to let anyone know.

As he walked, he belatedly realized that he was hungry. He started casing the storefronts as he walked. Up ahead, he saw a new-looking place with a line of people out the front of it. As he got closer, he realized it was a no-maj bakery. Percival usually wasn’t one for sweets, but the name caught his eye. Kowalski’s. The name sounded strangely familiar, though he couldn’t say why.

Trying to remember if he had ever met a “Kowalski” before, he stepped into line. As the line shuffled forwards slowly, he looked around the place with boredom. Though the cheerful place was definitely at odds with his sullen mood, it was nice, he thought. Not that he was any authority on bakeries. It looked new. His eyes wandered over the display cases.

 _That’s a pretty good niffler,_ he thought distractedly. Then he froze. He looked at the display cases again.

Now, he didn’t do too well at the Magical Creatures section of his Defense Classes in school. But he did well enough to be able to recognize them when they were staring out at him with doughy eyes. _Niffler, demiguise, erumpet, bowtruckle. Was that an occamy?_ He tried to figure out if this violated Rappaport’s Law. Inconclusive.

Finally, he reached the counter.

“What can I get for you, sir?” the man behind the counter asked jovially.

Percival suddenly realized that he hadn’t even considered what he wanted. He floundered, saying the first thing that came to his mind. “Uh, a couple paczkis.”

“You’re in luck, I have a couple in the back that just got done!” said the man. Kowalski, presumably. Then, glancing behind him to the kitchen, he called. “Hey, could you grab a couple paczki, kid? Then you can go ahead and take your break.”

A quiet, “Yes, sir,” came from the back. And then, a slightly more panicked, “Uh, Mr. Kowalski, I don’t think the cinnamon rolls are supposed to be doing this.”

The man swore, and looked at Percival imploringly. “Could you hold on for just a sec? I’ll have him ring you up.” Percival shrugged, unworried. It’s not like he had anywhere to be.

Kowalski went to the back, where a muffled conversation took place. “....just for a minute…only a few people…it’s alright…yeah, promise.” The other voice was too quiet to hear.

Then a timid figure shuffled out of the back,  bag of pastries in hand. His shoulders were hunched over and his face was firmly pointed to the floor. “Forty cents, please,” The young man mumbled at the floor. Percival handed pushed the money towards the kid, trying not to spook him. The kid grabbed it and immediately dropped it on the floor.

He dove down to retrieve the wayward dimes, visibly mortified. Percival’s lips twitched up a bit, feeling a bit bad for the nervous kid. Customer service obviously wasn't his forte.  After he located the dimes, the kid sprang back up and locked eyes with Percival.

The blood drained from Percival's face. He saw his own shock mirrored on the face across the counter from him.  _I didn't think an Obscurial would work in bakery,_ Percival thought nonsensically. 

There were a few tense seconds of silence. Barebone looked like he was a few seconds from destroying the building in his panic, starting to back up towards the kitchen. From the back it looked like Kowalski was wrapping up whatever he was doing to save the cinnamon rolls.

“Wait,” Percival blurted. “It’s Credence, right?” He got no response, save a wide-eyed stare that looked suspiciously teary. Percival tried to give off a non-threatening air. It didn’t work.

“Credence,” the kid flinched. “I’m not going to tell.”

“W-what?”

“I’m not going to tell,” Percival repeated, looking steadily at him. “Not a soul, ok? Promise.”

Credence looked at him, jaw clenched. Percival was suddenly very glad that he was the only customer still in the store. “I don’t believe you,” Credence said lowly. Smoke rose from his arms.

“I know. You don’t have any reason to,” Percival’s mind swam, trying to figure out how he could diffuse the situation. Percival leaned, in trying to not let the no-maj behind the counter hear. Credence leaned away from him unconsciously. 

“You saved my life in that factory. If you hadn’t shattered the wards on that door, I would have died long before my people got me out. So I’m not going to rat you out, ok? Not today or any other day.”

Credence opened his mouth to reply, but paused when Kowalski came back to the front. “Everything alright, sir?” he asked. To Credence, he added in, lower, “You ok?”

Credence nodded too fast. Percival gave Kowalski a smile that was probably not convincing. “Great. I was just saying how much I liked these designs,” he said, motioning to the assortment of baked magical creatures.

Kowalski brightened and Credence took that moment to make a tactical retreat from the kitchen. “He's a bit shy,” the baker explained.

“Yeah, I got that impression. Have a good one, Mr. Kowalski.”

The baker waved a goodbye and walked into the back again. Percival Graves left the bakery and walked down the street, stopping to sit on a bench.

He looked back in the direction of the bakery.

“Shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, they meet again! next up, Queenie checks up on Jacob, and Graves develops a habit. Credence would just like some peace.

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd, feel free to point out any mistakes that you see!


End file.
